He groped for something to say that wouldn’t sound like he was taking the piss.
‘What about your father?’ he managed.
She speared a cherry tomato with her fork.
‘From the same kind of universe I’m afraid. He was the lead singer in a one-hit-wonder rock group. If I told you their name you might even recognise it.’ She paused. ‘Then again, maybe not. You were probably in nappies when they were at the height of their fame.’
‘I’d never have pinned you as having such an unconventional upbringing,’ he said. ‘You seem so focused on your job, so sensible, and you look so…’ he searched for the right words ‘…not like a rock chick.’
Oh yes that just sounded great.
‘Yeah well,’ she said, taking a sip of her champagne. ‘The clue’s in the name.’
He frowned, thinking it over.
‘Layla?’ he said. ‘You mean like-‘
‘The song. Yep. My father’s all-time favourite. If only he could have been that talented, eh?’
She was very good at not taking herself seriously, it was impossible not to like her, with her jokey self-deprecating description of her background, yet there was a barbed edge to her tone that told him that however outwardly amusing all this might be, in reality for her it was anything but.
‘Are they still together, your parents?’
She shook her head.
‘He never lived with us. It was just some backstage fling my mother had. Not sure either of them had counted on me as a consequence. He sends Christmas cards. He’s a cinema manager now of all bloody things, somewhere up North. I have an address. But I’ve never had a real relationship with him. Nothing to do with my parents has ever been real. For all my mother’s obsessing, it’s never led to anything concrete. That money she took would have been my deposit on my own little place. She might as well have just thrown it off the plane. It will just be frittered away; there’ll be nothing to show for it.’ She took a sip of her wine, looked at him over the rim of the glass. ‘I don’t expect you to get that, you’re clearly someone who’s had an excellent return on their hard work but that’s because it’s YOUR celebrity, YOUR success. My mother thinks that hanging around that will somehow make it rub off on her and in reality the opposite is true – all it ever does is bleed her dry. And now me too.’
Their backgrounds were wildly different yet he could relate so easily to that feeling of not being the focus of his parents’ life, of somehow not being enough to satisfy them.
That odd feeling that she was fighting not to like him now made perfect sense. She kept herself consciously detached, he could see her doing it, making small talk, keeping her professional image going, yet in the moments when he broke through that barrier it was clear she was as attracted to him as he was to her. The fact drew him to her even further. She liked him in spite of his status and image, not because of it, and that to him was intoxicating.
Layla pushed her plate away, half finished, the beautifully presented meal pushed thoroughly into a haphazard pile that would have given the Michelin-starred chef palpitations. She’d said too much. Given away far too much of herself. Yet she’d had no real opportunity to vent her building fury at her mother, and once she’d started it was hard to stop the outpouring of bitterness. Maybe the fact he was from the same shallow world added to it. He was the perfect by-proxy target for her exasperation. Part of her felt better for letting off steam, yet her plans to keep things professional had somehow been forgotten in the process.
‘How did you get started then?’ she said. If they were going to talk family background, let it be about his no-doubt perfect one instead of her own train wreck of a childhood. She sat back in her chair and sized him up. ‘I bet you were one of the kids in sports lessons at school who got to pick the teams, weren’t you? I was the one lurking at the back because the whole picking process was hideous. Either that or I wouldn’t be there because I’d accidentally-on-purpose forgotten my kit.’
He grinned and nodded.
‘Sport not your thing then?’
‘Two left feet, zero co-ordination. Do you come from a sporty family?’
She imagined him as a kid smashing a tennis ball around a court while his family looked on proudly.
He took a sip of champagne.
‘Not really,’ he said, not looking at her. ‘In fact I probably couldn’t come from a less sporty family. My parents are both academics.’
She thought she picked up a hint of guard about his tone, but that couldn’t be right, could it? This was small talk, of the most general kind.
‘Really?’
‘My father’s passion is medieval history. He’s written a few books, he’s quite highly regarded in that field, if medieval history’s your thing. With my mother it’s English Literature.’
‘Wow,’ she said, impressed. Her own mother, for whom work was an irritation to be avoided whenever possible, had dropped out of school before managing any qualifications.
‘I know,’ he said, clearly picking up on the awe in her voice. ‘I’m not sure they knew what to make of a kid who couldn’t master basic grammar and had no aptitude for math. I wanted to spend every waking moment outside. Then I discovered tennis and there was no going back. Suddenly there was something I was good at after all.’
The bitter edge to his voice was hard to miss.
‘They can’t be disappointed by your achievements, surely. You just chose a different path to them, that’s all.’
He shrugged.
‘My brother and sister are a lot more intellectual than me. Emma is a teacher and Will is a research scientist, high up in his field. My parents can probably relate to that kind of achievement a bit more. I was adopted so growing up that was a bit of a thing for me, I wanted to be the same, fit in with the rest of my family. I wanted to be the academic kid who could do the math. ’
He was concentrating on refilling her glass, not looking at her. She felt a pang of unexpected sympathy for him. She knew a lot about trying to make an impression on your family, she’d spent her childhood not knowing where she was going wrong with that.
‘Don’t misunderstand me,’ he said. ‘They’re pleased I’ve done well. They just have no passion for tennis themselves. There’s none of this father-as-coach stuff.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘What was your thing at school then, if it wasn’t sport?’
‘Nothing was particularly my thing.’
‘There must be something. Everyone is good at something.’
‘I had a bit of a talent for playing guitar,’ she said dismissively.
Oh the hideous irony of it.
‘Had?’
‘My father taught me when I was very young.’ She took an ill-judged big sip of her champagne and tried not to cough. ‘One of the only positive inputs he’s had on my life actually. I don’t really play anymore though, haven’t picked up a guitar in years.’
Her father’s interest had petered out after he left. She hadn’t seen the point of playing after that, without a hope of his approval to encourage her. Certainly not as a way of following his example and chasing fame. She couldn’t think of anything worse.
She felt an odd sense of affinity with Matt Stanton, of all bloody people, which was totally ridiculous of course because their lives couldn’t be more different as it stood right now. Yet were their backgrounds really that far apart? He’d struggled to find a way of being good enough for his family’s approval. And she wasn’t sure she would ever find one.
****
A fire sparked and crackled in the hearth. Dinner over with, she stood and crossed to the fireplace to add another log, then took the lighter gadget from the mantelpiece and moved around the room touching candles alight, straightening the brocade cushions. Working, he realised.
‘Leave that,’ he said. ‘Come and sit down.’
She hesitated before picking her half full glass from the table and following him across the room. He noticed that she waited for him to sit down before she follow
ed suit, and then she took the opposite sofa. On her guard. Yet he’d felt a fleeting touch of something closer when they were talking over dinner. He couldn’t remember being so intrigued by someone, and her reticence only served to interest him even further. She was such a welcome foil to the one-sided conversations and endless bubbling enthusiasm of the usual girls he mixed with.
Her skin was honeyed porcelain in the flickering firelight, her hair gleaming. The baby pink softness of her upper lip made him itch to take it between his own lips and suck, just to see if it still felt as delectable as it had yesterday. Low burning began to course through his body just from looking at her.
Layla could feel his eyes on her and when she looked up from her glass the way he caught and held her gaze in his said it all. Her pulse rate made a break for it and her stomach melted to soft heat. An anticipatory tingle rose in her breasts and between her thighs at the thought of his hands on her, the memory of what had happened between them not twenty four hours ago in this suite crashing through her barriers straight back into her mind. The evening was theirs for the taking and he made his move by standing up, rounding the low coffee table and sitting beside her to take her hand in his.
She looked down at it.
‘I told you before, I’m not some fangirl. I know that sounds ludicrous after what happened yesterday, but that was so not what it was about for me.’
‘What was it about then?’
She considered the question, not sure she really knew the answer.
‘I don’t know. Proving a point maybe? Perhaps I’d just had a gutful of playing by the rules for once. Working, savings accounts, behaving responsibly…really it’s got me nowhere in life. My mother running out was the last straw.’ She shrugged. ‘I just wanted some fun.’
‘You regret it?’
The deliciousness of the previous evening danced through her mind.
‘Yes,’ she said, meaning no.
She was a crap liar. She saw it in his smile.
‘You’re like a palate cleanser,’ he said. ‘A reality check in the middle of all the madness.’
A single word or move from her would be enough to revert this whole situation to platonic. She simply needed to make herself and her position clear once again.
She didn’t withdraw her hand. Somewhere in the depths of her mind lurked the dark and delicious urge to take this further, this crazy situation she’d got herself into. Not just take it further but run with it, as far as she could. Maybe there was some kind of inevitability about her attraction to him that made it undeniable. Could this be an opportunity to explore her mother’s crazy lifestyle, to somehow get a tiny bit closer to understanding her parents and her own dysfunctional upbringing? Why not experiment with that world a bit herself? It didn’t mean she was going to fall for him, she had her head screwed on far too tightly for that.
That was the difference here, that was what set her apart from run-of-the-mill groupie. She had an agenda of her own that wasn’t about fan worship.
Or was she actually just clutching at straws to justify this to herself when it went against everything she’d always believed? Was she really considering continuing with this madness?
The thought made her stand up quickly, and she moved back towards the table, began stacking dishes on the silver trolley to be taken downstairs.
‘Thank you for dinner,’ she said over one shoulder. ‘But it’s getting late, I should think about finishing up here.’
She forced her mouth to say the words and when she had finished up here she would force her feet to walk out of the door.
And then he was behind her, one arm curling softly around her waist and the other sweeping her hair to one side so he could kiss her neck. Sparks fizzed down her spine as he turned her to face him and she looked into those melting dark eyes and felt rationality dissolve. She slid her palms slowly up his taut chest, feeling the hard muscle again beneath the fabric of his shirt, before sinking her fingers into his hair.
His hands slipped to the nape of her neck, his thumbs grazing her jawline softly as he tilted her face to the perfect angle and caught her lips with his, the softest most featherlight kiss.
And then he stopped, put a little space between them. Her heart raced in her chest. Acquiescence – that was what he was looking for. Some sign after her attempt to back off that really she wanted this too. All this talk about his childhood and the way he seemed to court the attention of the press – there was an inherent need for validation in everything he did, why would this be any different?
Her heart was pounding, desire racing through her veins at his touch, her mind insisting it meant nothing even as she moved powerlessly to close the gap between them. Rationalisation would have to come later now, she was beyond that presence of mind. She stood on tiptoe, leaned in and touched his lips lightly with her own. That one tiny movement was enough. He swept her against him, his mouth groping for hers, forcing it open, caressing her with his tongue. Her hands went to the buttons of his shirt, his slid down her body, lifting her skirt, rucking it up to waist height.
The urgency was intoxicating. His mouth hard against her neck, he tugged at her panties and she wriggled free of them and kicked them away. And then he was lifting her, his hands sliding beneath her bottom, her legs locking behind his back, her shoes still on her feet. He grabbed the half-full champagne bottle from the table as he passed and carried her across the suite and into the bedroom, kissing her as he went. Then she was lowered onto the bed, the softness of the sheet beneath her back and shoulders as he slipped each garment off her, kissing her skin as he exposed it. Naked now, she watched him strip off his own clothes, her breath coming in short bursts, sweet anticipation fluttering in her stomach.
He tugged her legs to pull her close against him at the edge of the bed, and she could feel the hard press of his arousal against her. An eagerness to explore him, to explore every delicious sensation to its full overtook her, and she reached down to stroke him, to caress the velvet softness of his skin with her fingertips. He moaned against her neck as she found a rhythm and the sound thrilled her, that she could invoke that kind of response in him.
He caught her hands in his and held them at her sides, kissing her softly on the mouth, his breathing harried against her lips. Desire fizzed in her stomach as he deepened his kiss and eased her backwards until her shoulders sank into the bed. Looming above her, he trailed kisses from her mouth, soft against her jaw, and down until he closed his lips over a nipple. He sucked gently, teasing her nipples with his tongue, cupping her breasts in his palms and holding them close together so he could easily access first one and then the other, his tongue slipping softly across the erect tips.
As he slid two fingers inside her, she let out a helpless moan of pleasure, and eyes closed, she felt him smile against her neck. . She opened her eyes as he pulled away a little, in time to see him drink from the bottle of champagne and hold the golden liquid in his mouth, and then he was leaning down and parting her thighs to expose her completely. A momentary bolt of shyness at his sigh of satisfaction and then she drew breath sharply as he leaned forward and closed his mouth over her swollen core. Icy champagne fizzed against her oversensitised skin, his tongue cold against her, and the sudden hard deliciousness as he sucked her dry made her throw her head back to gasp at the ceiling. He held her against his mouth as her body writhed, eking out every final second of her satisfaction.
A brief moment to lie spent on the softness of the bed as he reached for a condom, and then he was easing her legs apart with his own. She felt his length, big and hard as he rubbed it slowly between her legs, teasing her until she so ached to feel him inside her that she resorted to begging for it. And when she thought she could stand to wait no more, he finally acquiesced, thrusting forward smoothly in one hard, fluid movement, right to the hilt, stretching and filling her completely. Lifting her feet, one heel in each hand, he pulled them to his shoulders as he moved, the resulting deep hard thrust of him making her gasp and clu
tch the sheet. She spiralled toward dizzying heights of pleasure as he took her with hard, full strokes, his hands reaching forward now to cup her breasts, the nipples teased tight between his fingers, pulling her into his arms in the final moments to crush his mouth to hers and moan his own sated pleasure against her neck as he took them both over the edge.
****
Somewhere during the last two hours her legs had turned to jelly. And how she thought she could go back downstairs and carry on with work as per usual, she had no idea. She sat up and glanced at her reflection in the gilt edged mirror on the opposite wall. Her hair was one big tangle, and her makeup – what was left of it – was smudged beneath her eyes. She looked –and felt - like sin. And what shocked her the most was that there was a part of her that absolutely revelled in it.
She tried, with the rational part of her mind that hadn’t been completely seduced by the most unbelievable sexual experience, to think clearly. Her body was toast. She’d never known intimacy like it. But then of course he’d had a ton of practice, knew exactly what buttons to press to please a woman. He only had to brush against her to start the heat fizzing again right to her toes. She would have to rely on her head to get her out of this. Easing herself inch by careful inch, so as not to wake him, she edged towards the side of the bed and still lying down, put one foot out of it onto the floor. She moved a little more until she was hanging on the bed by one elbow and one bum cheek, poised to swing herself up and out. From there she’d thought no further than tracking down her clothes. Maybe once she’d got them on and tidied herself up she could figure out what to do. The corner of the sheet held in one hand ready to throw back, she gathered momentum, and then he suddenly sat up next to her in the bed.
Did Someone Order Room Service?: HarperImpulse Contemporary Romance Novella (Do Not Disturb, Book 2) Page 6